


Paintwork

by extension_cord



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Fantasizing, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 08:17:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extension_cord/pseuds/extension_cord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MTMTE: Pharma uses Ambulon to live out fantasies he knows will never happen; Ambulon tolerates it. He tolerates it pretty well, in fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paintwork

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer — nothing recognizable belongs to me.
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

"As usual, Ambulon, your appearance is lacking."

"Sorry, boss."

"We _do_ have high-quality paint on hand, you know." Pharma reclined further into his seat, arms crossed, one long leg hooked over the other, scrutinizing glare not once leaving the former Decepticon. "It's embarrassing to have one of my employees not looking his best."

Ambulon fought to keep his expression neutral. Already the atmosphere in Pharma's office had become oppressive, and he'd only just arrived, summoned for Primus-knows-what reason. Ambulon fidgeted, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, then said, "It's — it's not been a priority."

"Well, it should be now," Pharma said flatly. "You're getting a bit of a promotion."

 _That_ was unexpected. Ambulon stared, wide-opticked, at his superior. "Thank you, I think. To _what?_ "

"Don't thank me yet," Pharma grumbled. "I'm only doing this because it seems necessary. From this point forward, you're managing First Aid."

 _Oh_. So that's what this was: not so much a promotion for Ambulon, but a _demotion_ for First Aid. It was sure to make the already-strained relations at Delphi even more awkward. Though they performed their duties quite well as a team of professionals, on a personal level, Ambulon, Pharma, and First Aid got along horribly. There was Pharma's ever-present ego, which made interactions of every kind a headache — and then there was First Aid and his preoccupation with risky, nonconventional medical remedies and that blasted _Wreckers_ tripe. Ambulon was stuck in the middle of it all, and though he knew he himself was far from perfect, it was tiresome.

"So, First Aid, then?"

"Is getting demoted to nurse status, effective immediately." A small grin ticked at the corner of Pharma's mouth. "He doesn't know yet. It's your job to break the bad news. I'm sure that no matter how you choose to deliver it, it will be a softer blow, coming from you."

"I feel so honored," Ambulon said dryly. "Will that be all?"

"No." Pharma stood, hands clasped behind his back, and once again, that scrutinizing glare returned. "As I said earlier, your paintjob is a disgrace. I can see your old colors. Get it fixed."

"Uh-huh."

"I've taken a monumental risk in keeping you here."

That simple statement changed the atmosphere of Pharma's office considerably. A brief chill wormed its way into Ambulon's spark, and finally he felt a frown edge onto his face. "As always, Pharma, I'm grateful for it. You already know this."

"Do I?" With those two words, Pharma's voice dropped to a purr. "And just how much, Ambulon, _are_ you grateful?"

The tone sent a shiver rippling down the ex-Decepticon's frame, then a searing heat that snaked its way back up his spinal strut. Ambulon _knew_ what was on his boss' mind and now, trapped in his office, there was little he could do about it. He stood stock-still as Pharma circled him, his proximity growing ever closer, wingtips ghosting against Ambulon's blocky shoulders. "I'm — very grateful, sir. Considerably so."

Pharma came to a halt behind Ambulon. Despite the surgeon's controlled demeanor, his charged electromagnetic field betrayed his true, conflicted emotions: lust — hatred — bitterness coupled with longing and frustration. It wasn't often that Ambulon bore witness to Pharma's consciousness, but when it did happen, it was both terrifying and oddly alluring. He tried not to jerk with surprise when blue hands fell upon his shoulders. "Would you care to _demonstrate_ that gratitude?"

With those whispered words, another lick of flame shot through Ambulon's circuitry. He tried not to shudder as the hands scraped down his back, coming to rest on his waist, pulling him in closer. Pharma's plating was _scalding_ — in his typical controlled fashion he'd not yet engaged his cooling fans, which only added to the buildup of heat. Ambulon cleared his throat with a cough of static. "What — what would you like me to do?"

Pharma's EM field rippled with amusement. "What, indeed." He seemed to consider it for a moment, fingers idly stroking the ward manager's hip plating, one long leg easing itself between Ambulon's shivering thighs. "I want you," the words were hissed smoothly against the ex-Decepticon's helm, "to get on your hands and knees."

"Very well." Once released, Ambulon immediately fell to the deck, kneeguards hitting the hard floor with a resounding _clank_. He vented a shaky sigh, then gingerly sank forward onto his hands, raising his aft and spreading his legs. He was at war with himself: for as much as Ambulon disliked Pharma, and as much as Ambulon _knew_ Pharma despised him, these rare meetings were an almost-welcome deviation from the dull tedium that was Delphi.

Pharma knelt behind him, lanky bulk curled over the ward manager's back, digits caressing seldom-used transformation seams. His forged fingers slid down Ambulon's abdominal plating, finding his pelvic armor, tracing the span of metal between his thighs. "You're running hot."

Ambulon bit back a groan as the surgeon's digits continued to toy with the still-shut cover to his port. "Same could be said for you, Pharma." The retort was met with an open-handed blow to the side of his head. " _What —_ "

"Remember how this works: _don't speak unless spoken to_."

The former Decepticon nodded, dropped his head, then allowed his port cover to move aside. _Right_. Because that's what this was about: it wasn't about Ambulon, nor would it ever be. It was about Pharma, and a fantasy he just _couldn't let die_ —

"I'm glad we've reached an understanding." With one hand gripping the back of his head, Ambulon felt Pharma's other hand run up the inside of a thigh, digits moving over patches of chipped paint, dipping in to prod at his exposed port. "And you're already wet. So easy. So _shameless_." A finger circled the opening, and then two, and then they were pushed, none-to-gently, inside. Ambulon grunted but said nothing; instead he spread his legs further and allowed his cooling fans to power on. Pharma thrust his digits in and out, scissoring them against the slippery and pliable port walls, then withdrew. "So greedy." A moment passed, and Ambulon felt the weight of his superior's spike, turgid and hot, gliding against his aft. The grip on the back of his helm tightened, and then he was shoved downward, face hitting the deck.

Ambulon's boss never was particularly gentle, nor was he as skilled as he liked to boast.

With one sharp thrust Pharma sheathed himself fully inside Ambulon. The ex-Decepticon couldn't keep himself from wailing, not as the girth of the spike pushed through his port, dragging past sensory nodes and too-tight calipers. Pharma pulled out, then slammed forward again, pelvic span clanking against Ambulon's, grip tightening around the ward manager's waist. His movements were slow and stilted and ungainly, and Ambulon heard himself huff with impatience. As rare as these encounters were, Pharma always seemed to take a frustratingly long amount of time to work himself into a rhythm. Ambulon sighed, then pitched his interface array against Pharma's spike, moaning as a jolt of pleasure shot through his systems. _That_ was more like it.

At last Pharma fell into a steadier pace, and with it, his cooling fans roared to life. Any minute now, Ambulon knew his boss would start talking — it was impossible to keep Pharma quiet, whether it was during a complicated surgery or a lackluster interface, and sure enough —

" _That's_ right, you're going to _take it._ You _regret_ what happened? Yeah, well, me _too_. Just this — this one last time, and we are _done_."

Ambulon ignored the surgeon's vocalized stream of consciousness. Instead he focused on the stretch of his port as Pharma's spike plunged in and out of him — on the dig of the fingers that gripped his waist so tightly they dented his plating — on the _sound_ of their coupling: a lewd, wet noise punctuated by the clanging and rasping of armor. Simply acknowledging the raw _sensation_ of it all sent another surge of pleasure through Ambulon's systems, and he felt the hot trickle of lubricant as it slid down his inner thighs.

If only Pharma could just _shut the frag up_ , this would be marginally more pleasant.

Both of his hands now clutching Ambulon's waist, the jet's grip tightened further. Pharma's thrusts became vicious, his spike cleaving its way through cycling calipers, slamming in and dragging out of the ward manager's dripping port, vents roaring, and _he still wouldn't shut up_.

"Never — _ngh!_ — again! _Your loss_ , anyway! And I'm _— still_ — the better doctor!" Pharma's rhythm faltered slightly; Ambulon felt the servomotors in the other's thighs twitch against him, and knew that any second now —

— sure enough, Pharma snarled, "Say it! _Say it!_ "

Ambulon, with his face still pressed to the floor, obliged, gasping as he felt his overload nearing, shudders cascading down his frame. "You're — _ah!_ — the better doctor, Pharma! You — ah-always _have_ been!"

"Damn _right_ I am," was the growled response, and then Pharma's hips were jerking wildly, self-control evidently abandoned as he plowed into the clenching port beneath him. Ambulon slumped forward, spent, as his boss continued his assault, and _finally_ , with one last sharp thrust and the guttural cry of " _Ratchet!_ " Pharma hit overload, fingers clawing, joints seizing, fans screaming. Transfluid erupted from his spike, scalding and viscous, flooding Ambulon's port then streaking down his white thighs.

The minutes ticked by.

Ambulon recovered first, wrenching himself free from Pharma's still-twitching grasp. He groaned as he stood, then extended a hand. "Get up." Pharma accepted the offer, pulling himself to his feet, then immediately sunk back into his chair. It struck Ambulon that his boss looked _tired_. Noticeably so. "Get some rest," the ward manager grumbled. "Go recharge. You need it. You've been preoccupied."

Pharma nodded absently, then flicked his gaze to his subordinate's frame. "Clean up. And fix that damned awful paintwork of yours."

"Yes, sir."

"And don't forget to let First Aid know about his _new position_."

Ambulon grimaced. "Am I dismissed?"

Pharma took one final look at Ambulon, optics lingering on the freshly-dented waist. At last, with a terse nod, he said, " _Dismissed_."

* * *

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. :B


End file.
